


Hate is a Lack of Imagination

by CourtneyCourtney



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Chair Sex, F/M, Hate Sex, Power Dynamics, Sexual Fantasy, Spoilers Through 1.03, Unhealthy Relationships, Woman on Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-24 15:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21340369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtneyCourtney/pseuds/CourtneyCourtney
Summary: Even in his fantasies, Martin can't pretend she forgives him.That doesn't mean he can't enjoy himself, though.
Relationships: Jessica Whitly/Martin Whitly
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	Hate is a Lack of Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> Any of you guys familiar with that Victor Hugo quote, “Imagination is intelligence with an erection”? I lowkey wanted to use that as the fic title, but I didn’t want to go too blue + too jokey. The actual title is from Graham Greene's _The Power and the Glory_.
> 
> The real Jessica Whitly isn't in this story. I could not afford her.
> 
> I don't ship Jessica & Martin per se, but I'm intrigued by their relationship pre-series. Like, what the fuck was that marriage like? I also love watching Bellamy Young and Michael Sheen act against each other, so kudos to them casting directors!

Even in his fantasies, Martin can't pretend she forgives him. That isn't the Jessica he knows and loves.

That doesn't mean he can't enjoy himself, though.

He's spent a lot of time over the years thinking about how he could have her again. Some of them are nicer, softer. In their bedroom at home, or in the Hamptons, a facsimile of their honeymoon if he’s feeling especially nostalgic. Even in those, she cries afterward, about what she's done or what their relationship has become. Always so focused on the past, the poor thing.

They aren’t always that picturesque, though, especially not when he pictures her here, finally visiting him in the asylum. God, he loves imagining Jessica here. How uncomfortable she would be with lowering herself to his level, how validating it would be to see her in his cell decades after vowing she was through with him for good. So her first visit wasn’t exactly a joyous, all-is-forgiven affair, but he has more concrete details to work with now, at least.

_(“You’re stunning.”_

_(“Burn in hell.”)_

Maybe she's genuine about the intention of her visit. Maybe she honestly comes to talk about Malcolm, to tell Martin to back off, and one thing leads to another. It’s better if she comes in with an ulterior motive, though, if she came to visit with this in mind. She can be too altruistic for her own good sometimes. She really needs to do things that aren’t for anybody else’s benefit more often.

It's better if she's wearing a dress instead of one of her pantsuits, too, Martin decides. Why not? Jess always had great legs, not to mention it makes what Martin has in mind a lot easier to maneuver.

He isn’t surprised to see her in this particular daydream. Sometimes their reunions are more mutually passionate; sometimes he’s the initiator. In this one, though, he doesn’t even get up from his desk chair before Jessica is on him.

“If you _ever_ tell anyone about this,” she’s saying as she goes to kneel between Martin’s legs. She tugs at the waist of his pants with her perfectly manicured nails.

Martin scoffs, cutting off the end of her threat. "Please. The only person I have any kind of intelligent conversation with these days is our son, and even _I'm_ not sadistic enough to bring up his parents' sex life."

Jessica scowls up at him. "I'm being serious." Her hands are on his hips; she isn't strong enough to truly pin him in place, but she could certainly find other, more creative ways to make him regret moving (not that Martin intends to go anywhere, not with Jessica finally back in his life and on her knees before him).

"As am I," Martin replies. "That's a trigger for a lot of people."

“I'll bet,” she remarks dryly before she sets about shutting him up.

Martin lets his head hit the back of his chair. It's been so long, too long since he had Jessica to take care of him, but the patterns come back to him, easy as breathing. He doesn't even need to look down to wind a gentle hand through her hair.

Jessica pulls back, swatting his hand away from her scalp. She frowns up at him. "No touching."

Martin raises his eyebrows but says nothing, lifting his hands in mock surrender. Jessica eyes him warily for a minute before ducking her head back down to his lap.

It's second nature, Martin thinks, to hold himself back, to concentrate on holding still so he doesn't gag her. Another time, maybe he will. It's not like either of them have to worry about the sounds they're making, or about being watched. God knows where the guard for his room went. Or no, Martin knows, one of them would have bribed him to leave. It's better if it's Jessica's doing, if it turns out fucking her husband in his prison cell is just as worthy a cause as all her charity pet projects around the city.

Jessica has always been his favorite sexual partner. It's one of the many reasons he married her. She's always been more assertive than any of the girls Martin went with before.

All that confidence makes taking her apart in bed all the more satisfying.

"Jessica," Martin pants after several minutes, and she pulls away dutifully.

"Come on, Jess," he says, offering her a hand up. "That's enough of that." It's incredible, _she's_ incredible, but that isn't how he's going to come, and they both know it. She wouldn't have visited in the first place otherwise.

She ignores his assistance, of course, but still she rises, leaning over him gracefully. With her left hand, she grips the arm of his chair; with her right, she hikes up her skirt.

There's a joke in there somewhere, maybe, about him offering her a seat while they continue their conversation. Doesn't fit the mood, though. Doesn't fit with how desperate Jessica is to straddle his lap, both of them working to guide Martin's cock into her.

After that sole display of cooperation, though, it's Jessica's show. Not that Martin is complaining, but he might as well be wearing handcuffs for all that she lets him help. She slaps his hands away every time he tries moving them anywhere above her waist.

"I _said_ not to touch," Jessica snarls again. She doesn't mean it, of course. She can say whatever she wants; she still came back to him. Still, Martin keeps his hands on her hips, guiding her up and down, over and over.

Jessica's own hands stay steadfastly on the arms of the chair, Martin notices. It certainly minimizes the amount of contact she has to have with him, but it makes her thrusting a bit shallow.

"Come on, Jess," Martin says, hoping to annoy her. "We both know I can take it harder than this."

“Don’t call me that,” Jessica huffs. She glares at him for a long minute, sighs again like she’s facing some great hardship, and then she moves her hands to Martin’s shoulders.

Martin groans, clutching the backs of her thighs. She’s closer than before, her panting breath ruffling the curls on the top of his head. This must be a better angle for her, given how much faster she’s going, driving him even deeper into her cunt.

“That’s right,” Martin says, “take whatever you need.” If she bribed the guards, it’s only fair to let her set the pace here.

“Oh _shut up_,” Jessica hisses, snapping her hips down with more force than before.

Martin grins against her throat. "Or what?" he asks. No matter what she does here, he wins. If she wants to gag him to get him to stop talking, he can get off on that. If she wants him to put in more effort, too, he wouldn’t argue. So long as he has her on his cock, he comes out on top.

Sometimes he asks how many partners she’s had in the intervening years. It isn't a sore spot for him by any means; Jessica's a beautiful woman, and he'd be an idiot to pretend she spent any of their separation saving herself for him. It doesn't matter what her answer would be, though. He doesn't need to remind her that no amount of other men can measure up to him when she ended up back here.

Martin gets a hand between them; he's the best, and he's going to give Jessica the best if she's really his to keep again.

Jessica moans, long and loud, hips rolling forward. _There she is_, Martin thinks. He can almost pretend they're stupid kids with more money than common sense again, sneaking away from a gala to have some real fun, or that they're older and screwing around after their own kids have gone to bed. It comes back to him. The memories, his family. Everything comes back to him, it always does in the end.

Martin pulls his hand away. He pulls back to look at Jessica.

"Say it." He's pushing his luck and he knows it, but he has to ask nicely before he pushes further.

“No,” Jessica replies, blood red lips curled into a sneer. Her eyes are open, but she isn’t looking at him, has her head tilted up. She’s still grinding down into his lap, though.

It’s Martin’s turn to huff in frustration. “Now that isn’t any way to treat your host,” he comments before punching his hips up. It gets a shaky gasp out of Jessica, and her nails dig further into his shoulders, but she still isn’t looking down.

“Come on, Jess,” he says, petting a hand up her hip and across her stomach. “For old time’s sake, huh?”

Jessica promised she would never say she loved him again. She also promised she’d never visit him again. She never promised she’d never fuck him again, but it seemed pretty implicit at the time. It might have taken twenty-odd years for her to break, but break she did. What’s one more broken promise at this point?

“You’re pathetic,” Jessica replies, gaze still fixed on the ceiling.

Martin winds a hand back into Jessica’s silky hair, wrapping the dark locks around his knuckles before yanking them hard enough to bring tears to her eyes and her face closer to his. At least it gets her to make eye contact, watery as it may be.

“Say it,” Martin repeats. It doesn’t matter if she means it or not; it’s the principle of the thing. Of course she’ll tell him she still loves him. She isn’t going to leave now, not when he has her this close to the edge.

Jessica snarls back at him, the effect lessened by the angle Martin’s grip has her neck bent at. She looks murderous. Martin can’t remember the last time he was this hard.

Martin flinches as Jessica grabs his wrist and digs in with her perfect nails. He lets her go, watches her jerk her head back before lunging forward again, teeth bared.

Whatever Martin expected, it wasn't a kiss, brutal and clashing but still perfect because it's _Jessica_. Jessica kisses him hard enough for Martin to lose his footing, and the desk chair rolls backward toward the bookshelf from their combined force. Her arms wind around his neck, and Martin moans into her mouth. It's fantastic, so much better than he thought he'd get in this scenario, really.

Jessica whines as he gets a hand back on her clit, gets back to getting her off.

It's been so long, too long. Jessica is so tight and wet around him, and as much as Martin wants, he can't hold off any longer. He breaks away from Jessica's punishing kiss to put his head on her shoulder, folding in on his wife as he comes hard. Jessica says nothing, lets him jerk beneath her as she runs her hands through his hair before moving them back to his shoulders.

Martin buries his face in her heaving chest once he's finished. He bites back a hysterical laugh. Five minutes from now, she'll eviscerate him for coming inside her, but right now, _God_. Right now, it was brilliant and completely worth it.

"Ugh," Jessica says against the top of his head. "You son of a bitch."

Martin snorts. Less than five, then. He'd be more intimidated if Jessica didn't sound close to shaking apart.

He leans back in his chair so he can see her face again. As efficiently as possible, Martin moves her off of his softening cock before shoving three fingers into her cunt, driving up fast and rough enough to keep any cum from leaking out. He keeps the fingers of his other hand on her clit, pace relentless.

"You know, Jessica - " Martin begins as casually as he can.

"Don't." Jessica cuts him off, her eyes widening in horror. She knows him too well, knows exactly what he's planning to say next.

Martin knows her just as well, though. The patterns come back to him, easy as breathing. He remembers where and how to touch her, remembers exactly how to push her buttons and make her fall to pieces.

"I still love you, Jess," Martin remarks.

Jessica's expression crumbles immediately, recognizing the sentence for the killing blow it was. Her face screws up in pain. She opens her mouth like she intends to reply, but instead, all that comes out is a wordless cry. Her spine locks up, and she goes over the edge with her head thrown back and her eyes fixed on the ceiling once more.

Martin smiles up at her. Stunning as always, his Jessica.

Jessica shudders above him, and Martin fucks her through it for as long as he can. It's only fair, after everything she's done for him. He only stops touching her when her grip on his shoulders loosens and she slumps forward onto him.

"_Fuck_," says Jessica after a lengthy silence. It doesn't sound like she's crying this time, but the thread of self-loathing in that one word is familiar. Slowly, Martin pulls his fingers out of her, and she hisses.

"I can't fucking believe you came first," she says. After a resigned sigh, she adds, "I mean, I _can_, actually."

Martin presses a single kiss to her neck before leaning back in his chair. "What can I say?" he asks with a lazy grin. "You do things to me."

Jessica grimaces, then moves off his lap to stand on unsteady legs. "This is the _last_ time I do things to you, I swear to God."

Martin laughs to himself. Another lie. Another Jessica Whitly Promise to be broken. He missed her so much.

“So, same time next week?” Martin asks like she has a choice.**  
**

Jessica sniffs and tosses her hair over her shoulder before meeting his gaze.

“We’ll see,” she replies.

**Author's Note:**

> **Martin**: Stay foxy. :)  
**Jessica**: Die lonely. :) :) :)


End file.
